


Sleep Easy

by megxmas



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Derek/Stiles Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slash, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4316808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megxmas/pseuds/megxmas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had never been an easy kid to raise.<br/>First, the hyperactivity.<br/>Then, the questions.<br/>When he turned sixteen? Whole different ball game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Easy

**Author's Note:**

> God damn how are titles so hard to come up with?  
> In this timeline, Derek never left and the Sheriff never knew anything about anything. And is obviously called John.

Raising Stiles had never been easy. He was always so hyperactive, bouncing off the walls with endless energy that John could practically feel buzzing beneath the surface. He and Claudia hadn’t been able to get him diagnosed and medicated until he was seven, seven long, sleepless years, and even after that, Stiles was always somewhat resistant to the treatment. It had taken another two years before they got his dosage right, and by that time they’d lost Claudia, and John had felt lost and confused and frazzled for what felt like forever.

By the time he was eleven, hyperactive Stiles was replaced by curious Stiles, the Stiles that wanted to know everything about everything, that just couldn’t let it go when John didn’t know something. Some days, that had felt like just as much work as the Stiles he had to peel off the ceiling every ten minutes.

And then when Stiles was sixteen? Whole different ball game. The sneaking out John could deal with; that felt like a typical teenage thing to do. And the lying, to an extent. That was bearable. Teenagers have secrets. As much as John had liked to think that he and Stiles were close enough to be beyond that, he knew he had to make concessions.

But then Stiles started turning up at crime scenes, had been involved with kidnapping, seemingly involved with murder? John was a patient man, loved his son to the ends of the earth, but even he could see that something needed to be said.

He gave it a year or so, waited to see if it was just curiosity that had him end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, waited to see if it would die down by itself.

It didn’t, of course.

Stiles kept turning up, getting in trouble, and worst of all, getting hurt. 

The week before Stiles turns eighteen, John sits him down, is going to have a talk. A good old fashioned ‘what the fuck is happening with you’ talk.

Stiles is watching him, guarded, holding himself tightly, and John yearns for the six year old that would swing from his arm in the park. He sends John a small smile, and John sighs.

‘What’s going on, Stiles?’

Stiles paints a surprised and confused look on his face, the one that feigns innocence, the one that John has seen a hundred times before, the one that he cannot be fooled by.

‘Don’t give me that look, Stiles. I’m not an idiot. What’s been happening with you?’

Stiles avoids his eyes, fiddles with his fingers, opens his mouth.

And his phone rings.

John raises his eyebrows, challenging him to answer. Stiles goldfishes at him for a moment, his hand twitching towards his pocket.

‘Stiles,’ John says, a warning. Stiles’ fingers drift to his side. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Stiles at least manages to look genuinely apologetic as he pulls his phone out and answers it, pressing it to his ear and standing to leave the room. John sighs, runs a hand across his face, and waits.

He’s not trying to eavesdrop, really, but he can’t help but catch Stiles’ voice, hushed. But then Stiles never knew how to properly be quiet, even when he was trying.

‘Huh? Really? Wait, so – Sure. Yeah, I think so. I just need to – yeah, twenty minutes.’

John grits his teeth, knows Stiles is going to come in with some excuse to up and run, to get involved with a whole load of shit, and John can’t help but feel himself grow angry.

Stiles comes back in with his shoes and jacket on, and John stands. 

Stiles is already halfway to the door when he speaks. ‘So Scott completely forgot to revise for this test tomorrow, and he’s already nearly flunking economics, so I’m gonna go help him cram, probably stay over and go into school with him in the morning.’

John shakes his head, walks to the door and puts a hand on it, stopping Stiles from opening it. ‘Where’s your bag?’ he asks.

Stiles looks confused, before realization hits.. ‘Huh? Oh, yeah, right, I’ll just go grab it.’ 

John puts a hand on his arm. ‘No, Stiles.’

‘What?’

‘You’re not going out tonight.’ John is stern; he’s not the Sheriff for nothing. Although he’d never been great at disciplining Stiles – those eyes managed to look devastated so easily.

‘What, am I grounded or something?’ Stiles sounds incredulous, and John takes it as a personal hit that the idea of him punishing Stiles is so inconceivable. 

John tempers his anger, tries to stay calm, nearly manages it. ‘Yeah, Stiles, you’re grounded. You’re grounded until next week.’

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to argue, before shutting it and gritting his teeth, and for a moment, John is looking at himself as a young man.

‘You got any kind of reason for this? Because as far as I can tell, I haven’t actually done anything wrong.’

‘Maybe, just maybe, I’m sick and tired of you running off at all hours, spending all your time with who even knows, getting hurt, and lying to me. Constantly.’ John’s not shouting, but he’s close.

Stiles, on the other hand, is quiet, and John knows that he’s won, won this game that he really does not want to be playing.

He continues, says, ‘If you tell me the truth about where you’re going tonight, where you have been going for the last two years, act like an adult for once, then maybe I’ll treat you like an adult, and let you go. If not, you can wave goodbye to any kind of social life between now and when you leave for college, because you will not be leaving this house except for school, do you hear me?’ John hates this, hates shouting at his son, hates shouting at the best thing in his life, but goddamn, he’s never felt this helpless and desperate in his whole life.

Besides Claudia. Claudia would know how to handle this. Stiles would’ve told Claudia everything by now.

Stiles shifts his jaw, fires bright in his eyes, and John knows he isn’t getting any answers tonight. At least, if Stiles isn’t going out, he’ll be safer.

Stiles must know that even if he did tell John everything, he still wouldn’t be allowed out, so instead, he screws up his face in anger, before turning on his heels and going up the stairs. John hears his door close, takes comfort in the fact that it wasn’t a slam, and sinks down onto the couch.

He can’t even bring himself to pretend to be surprised when he looks into Stiles’ room at about 11, and finds it empty.  
-  
It’s 4:20 am when Stiles gets home. John knows this, because he’s facing the clock when he’s woken. Stiles has all the grace of a herd of elephants. At which point John is suddenly reminded of a 12 year-old Stiles showing him a magazine article about a ballet that was composed for elephants to dance to, and he rubs his eyes absently at the memory.

He’s debating whether it’s worth him getting up for, torn between giving Stiles hell or giving up completely. And then he hears a voice, one that is not Stiles’, and he rolls out of bed, ready to face this head on.

He opens the door as the two figures reach the top of the stairs, and he double takes, not quite sure what he’s looking at.

There’s Stiles, and then, of all people, Derek Hale, and there’s blood, and Derek’s practically holding Stiles up while he winces in pain. John’s heart nearly stops, and he feels the blood drain from his face. 

Stiles lifts a hand, gives him a half wave, says ‘Heey, Daddio, how’s it hanging? Did we wake ya?’ John hates it, the fake nonchalance, the stupid sarcasm that’s fuelling this rift.

He walks towards Stiles, shoots Derek a glare, slips an arm around Stiles’ back, taking some of his weight. He can’t even bring himself to be angry, is quiet as he says, ‘How badly hurt are you?’

He and Derek walk him to Stiles’ bedroom, as Stiles says ‘Not too bad, just some cuts and a sprained ankle.’ He’s lost the swagger, is being serious, finally.

They put him on his bed, and John turns to Derek. ‘What happened? What the hell is going on?’

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles speaks before he has the chance to explain. ‘I think I need to talk to Dad alone, Derek. I’ll be okay.’

Derek looks at Stiles intently, and John can sense some kind of non-verbal communication, because then Derek is nodding, stepping towards the door.

John stops him, a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t think I’m not going to want to talk to you too. Tomorrow.’

Derek nods again, says, ‘Yes sir,’ before leaving. John would be lying if he said he doesn't enjoy the fearful look he shoots towards him as he goes.

John huffs, goes to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom, comes back, sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

‘Where are you hurt?’ he asks.

Stiles lifts his shirt a little, and John helps him pull it off the rest of the way. There are a few fresh, fairly deep cuts on his torso, but maybe dozens more scarred cuts. John pulls out the disinfectant. 

‘Talk.’  
-  
Stiles is still grounded.  
-  
Derek comes back at about 10 the next morning, after Stiles has gone into school, insisting he’s fine, jeez Dad, it’s just cuts and bruises, seriously.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table, cups of coffee in hand, watching each other closely.

‘I-‘ Derek starts, before John cuts in.

‘Nope. I talk first.’

Derek nods.

‘I don’t like what Stiles is doing. I don’t like him hanging out with you or any other, Jesus, werewolves. I don’t like him being in danger. I don’t like him lying to me.’

Derek’s quiet, breathing through his nose, little huffs in and out.

‘I also know how impossible he is to control. How much he wants to help people. How he’s nearly eighteen, and soon I won’t have any say over his life whatsoever.’ He leans forward. ‘I want you to promise me two things.’

Derek nods.

‘One. You do whatever you have to in order to keep him safe. In my book, you cannot go too far to protect him. Two. When there are issues that need dealing with, you come to me. I know werewolves are super strong and everything, but Stiles is not, and werewolf or not, your friends? They’re practically children. They shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.’

Derek nods.

John sighs. Derek obviously isn’t much of a talker.

Except then he does speak. ‘I always do everything in my power to keep Stiles safe. I can’t promise he’ll never be in danger, but I’d rather die than let anything happen to him.’ God, he sounds so sincere. 'I care about him a great deal,' Derek says, looking into his lap as he speaks, as if he's embarrassed about caring for Stiles. Looking up, he continues, ‘and I’ve been wanting to speak to you about this for some time now. Stiles just wanted to keep you out of it; he said you’d be safer if you didn’t know.’

And god, isn’t that just his kid. John gives Derek a small smile, takes a sip of his coffee, and says, ‘I have guns. You can’t die, but I’m sure you can hurt.’

Derek goes back to nodding.  
-  
Things, at least, get better. John hates the idea that Stiles has been in so much danger, has nearly died more than once, but he relaxes a little, now that Stiles will actually tell him where he’s going, rather than just mumbling lies as he’s already halfway out the door.

After three months of coming to terms with everything he’s been told, he figures nothing could surprise him.

He’s wrong.  
-  
He comes back from a late shift, and there’s an empty pot on the stove and no Stiles to be seen. John checks his phone, but there’s no missed call or text from Stiles. Yawning, he climbs the stairs and pushes into Stiles’ room.

And sees.

Oh boy, does he see.

He closes the door, wondering if burning his eyes out would actually erase the memory of the sight from his brain. A very naked Derek writhing against a very naked Stiles, sweaty and moaning and panting and – god – he needs a very stiff drink very, very quickly.

Twenty minutes later, Stiles is standing in front of him, Derek just behind him, both red faced and awkward, not meeting his eyes.

John shakes his head, doesn't want to talk about it yet. It makes more sense than he would've thought, Derek's possessive stance behind his son, the way they tend to gravitate towards each other. John thinks about Derek's previous words, how much he'd wanted to convince him that he cared. He sighs, waves the boys away, Stiles is eighteen, Derek is an adult, it’s fine, I said it’s fine, Stiles. We can save this conversation till morning.

And Stiles and Derek are nodding, and Stiles is shooting him a grateful smile as he cautiously retreats back upstairs, Derek's hand in his, cautious whispers shared as they walk. John drops his head into his hands, smiles, laughs, pours the drink down the sink. He’s upstairs and in bed within twenty minutes, and he sleeps easier that night than he has done in a long time. They’re going to be okay. For the first time in a long time, John sleeps easy about Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments give me warm feelings, if you have time.  
> Interesting sidenote: The elephant ballet is a real thing! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circus_Polka  
> Stravinsky knew how to dream.  
> I love the Stilinski family dynamic, couldn't help having a play with it! I posted this in a hurry, so if there are mistakes pretty please let me know.  
> Hit me up at slowunsteady.tumblr.com


End file.
